


the cure for flight sickness

by Alpacalama



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: And finding his place among them, Angst with a Happy Ending, Body Dysphoria, Brief mention of Fulcrums appreciation for powerful and large frames, Courting Rituals, Cuddling, Developing Friendships, Developing Relationship, Discussion of Non-Consensual Body Modification, Falling In Love, Fluff and Angst, Fulcrum realizing that the scavs aren’t like your typical decepticon crew, Ignoring symptoms, M/M, Misfire and his lack of a brain to mouth filter, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Multiple, Pre-Relationship, Seeker Trines, Seeker culture, Seeker!Fulcrum, Starts some time after Fulc joins the crew, Time Skips, dont want to spoil TOO much ya kno, well..........
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-23
Updated: 2020-11-24
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:01:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25434307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alpacalama/pseuds/Alpacalama
Summary: Fulcrum wasn't always abomb, he used to be able to soar into the skies and feel the wind against his wings.He remembers having a not-trine, a group of mechs who also needed the freedom the sky offered, but who were unwilling to commit to a proper trine, bond and all.He remembers being proud of his alt, even if it wasn't a sleek jet, or a powerful shuttle. He remembers free falling, letting himself twist and tumble through the air only to catch himself last moment and shoot up, a crack of laughter bursting out of him.He remembers how K-Class training beat that joy out of him. He remembers being pushed over a ledge into a grav-field over and over, uncomfortable new frame transforming against his will.He remembers hanging there, suspended in zero-g, ugly alt chafing around his spark, wondering if this is all that's to be left of his memories of the sky. Falling and falling and falling and falling and falling.
Relationships: Fulcrum/Misfire (Transformers)
Comments: 34
Kudos: 91





	1. Chapter 1

It’s after, once they’ve had time to catch their breath and get back on their feet, Fulcrum notices that something is very _very_ wrong.

His mind, as smart as it is, can be dull like Astrotrain’s aft plating when it comes to certain things. He doesn’t immediately think of the obvious cause for this feeling of _wrongness._ His own health is a secondary concern. He’s used to being in pain and uncomfortable so he doesn’t think anything is out of the ordinary, and discards the thought that it might be him. 

The feeling doesn’t go away, though, it only gets worse. It feels like he has sand underneath his plating, it itches and is more sensitive than usual. He can’t stop flaring his plating, trying to shake off the invisible feeling of discomfort. 

_Bad batch of energon?_ He thinks to himself, then pauses, the thought of mites flit across his mind and he clenches his fists in anxiety. He hopes it’s just bad energon. He shouldn’t say anything, the rest of the gang don’t need the added stress of whatever seems to be bothering him. He’ll wait, and if the others share his symptoms, then he’ll mention it, and hopefully they can find a cure.

It continues to worsen, and worryingly, the others don’t seem to share any of his symptoms.

Fulcrum decides the best thing to do is pretend it doesn’t exist, whatever it _is_. He can get used to the feeling of his plating wanting to bend and flex in ways it shouldn’t. He can ignore the imaginary sand. _He can._ As long as he keeps himself occupied, as long as he focuses on anything but, he can live with it. 

The first thing he decides to distract himself with is the most pressing task on-board the WAP, cleaning. He doesn’t dare ask Krok what’s caused some of the messes on the ship, he’s afraid of the answers he’ll receive. Like what appears to be a mech-sized (and shaped) scorch mark in the hallway to the bridge. He starts small, cleaning out the hab suit they’d graciously given him shortly after when he had joined their motley crew. There’s not much in it, some scrap he saves for later, lots of dust, and some empty boxes.

He doesn’t have any possessions, K-Class training had beaten the need for them out of his, and the other prisoners' lives. The jailors, who had taken sick, sick satisfaction at beating them until their sparks threatened to extinguish, had taught them that the only thing that they should _want_ was for the glory of the great Decepticon Empire. He’s sealed off that part of his life in a dark, distant part of his mind. He’ll deal with it later (he’s also secretly hoping that this too will disappear if he ignores it long enough). 

He had emptied out his subspace, and there wasn’t much. A rifle he’d gingerly scavenged from some corpse, a stim, a few bolts and a good amount of lint. Fulcrum wasn't gun savvy, he was quite wary of guns, but this was one of the first things he had found after waking up. They’d stopped on a moon, a few days after their encounter with the DJD, as per Kroks orders. The others had grumbled (Misfire in particular, although Fulcrum suspected the jet just liked being fussy about things) about the sudden stop, but understood the necessity of keeping their supplies relatively well stocked.

Walking around the old abandoned battlefield, Fulcrum still wasn’t quite sure what he was supposed to be looking for. He was too anxious to speak up about it in front of the others, they all acted like it was _so obvious,_ which made him feel stupid and inadequate, so he’d just nodded and went along when Krok had started giving orders. Later though, he wished that he’d said something, he felt completely out of his depth.

Embarrassingly, he had stumbled over a green protrusion in the ground, and had nearly hit the dirt. It turned out to be the rifle. It wasn’t anything special, nothing to garner a second look, but it was a treasure to him. It was standard, an SMG07 with no mods or additions as far as he could tell. He didn’t know if it was made with a green paint job, or if it’s owner had done it themselves.

He’d grabbed it from the corpse, sparing a brief moment to wonder what faction they’d belonged to, before deciding it didn’t matter. Dead was dead.

He’d tucked it into his subspace, proud of himself and of his find. This would definitely count as useful, Krok would be pleased. But, as soon as he had that thought, his mood dipped. The lick of pride he was feeling had started to dissolve. He found… he didn’t want to give it up, which was stupid. Krok was his CO now, and he had his orders to go and find anything they could use. The rifle definitely counted, and it would be selfish to keep it to himself, but…

He prevented himself from thinking about it by subtracting 27.7 from 10,000 on his walk back to the WAP, using the numbers to cut off his stream of thought. Numbers where easy, numbers didn’t have stupid emotions and stupid conflicting thoughts.

Krok and Crankcase were already back at the ship when he arrived, conversing between themselves. Crankcase has stayed nearby to scavenge, since he was their only pilot. Fulcrum wasn’t sure when Krok had returned, but the sight of him made something uncomfortable twist in his gut. He didn’t… he wanted to be helpful and prove that he wasn’t a freeloader, but he was so unwilling to part with the rifle and he _didn’t know why._

_7,756.3 minus 27.7 is 7,728.6… 7,728.6 minus 27.7 is 7,700.9… 7,700.9 minus-_

The sound barrier broke.

Fulcrum flinched from where he was standing, rapidly torn out of his calculations by the noise. His spark lurched, and he straightened up, ready to go join them-

Oh. He couldn't do that anymore. He’d forgotten.

Spinister and Misfire came speeding into sight on the horizon, Misfire blasting past the heli. Fulcrum longingly watched the two of them, the feeling of _wrongness_ only growing inside him. Spinister didn’t wait until he was on solid ground to transform, once he was near the group, he shifted out of his alt-mode and free fell towards them.

Fulcrum was a little bit awed in the way the heli landed, powerful frame shaking the ground and causing dust to fly up and lick at his plating. Not that he’d ever mention that, last thing he wanted was for the rest of them to think he was a newspark who had never seen battle or a warframe.

“Hey, Krok,” Spinister nodded at the monoformer before walking over to the landing ramp. Fulcrum began to shuffle over, Misfire was flying laps around them but he was sure to land soon, and Fulcrum didn’t want to be the last one there. He tried to avoid looking at the jet, who was joyfully doing spins in the air.

He gave an awkward little wave with his hand and stood near them, just outside the half circle they made. Krok nodded at him, but didn’t prompt him to a conversation, which Fulcrum was grateful for. He watched as Spinister walked over to the ship and settled down on the ground, pulling nonsense out of his subspace.

Behind him, Fulcrum heard the sound of a t-cog in action, and he half turned to grin at Misfire. The emptiness in him was still there, hollowing out his insides, but he couldn’t deny that seeing the jet so happy and carefree made him feel _something_ that wasn’t depressing.

“Loser! How was your first scuttle in the dirt?” Misfire had jogged up to him, wingspan flared wide and open, happy. Fulcrum couldn’t handle staring directly at that much joy, so he looked down and focused on rolling a rock around with his pede, when he answered, “It was ok.”

Misfire scoffed. “C’mon, it has t’ have been better than just _ok._ Spill the beans, noob.” Fulcrum didn’t understand what beans were and why he would spill them or what a ‘noob’ was, so he stayed quiet and shrugged.

Out of the corner of his vision, he saw a pink wingtip flick upwards. Annoyed? Confused? Curious? It could mean any of the above, but Fulcrum wouldn’t know unless he could get a good view of the jet's face. He still wasn't acclimated to Misfires mannerisms and ticks.

Cautious, he peeked up to spy a look, but froze when he made eye contact. Seems like Misfire was already looking at him, optics crinkled at the corners impishly. Fulcrum froze, mouth opening to say something, although he didn’t know what.

Misfire opened his mouth to speak (most likely to tease), lips curled in a grin, when Krok’s voice calling out caused them to both jump, startled. Sheepishly, Fulcrum turned away from Misfire and shuffled closer into the half-circle. His back plating pinched and he felt his face tighten. It seemed to be doing that a lot lately. The most likely cause was that he had sprained it when falling from the World Sweeper.

Krok gave them both an unimpressed look, and Fulcrum forced his face into the practiced look of neutrality, ready to receive a punishment or at least a dressing down for acting so, _so unorthodox._ Decepticons didn’t smile and wish to go flying in circles with their crew.

To his surprise, Krok didn’t verbally flagellate him and instead clapped his hands, gesturing to the group afterwards with an easy look in his optics.

“Let’s take stock.”

Immediately, Misfire was dumping stuff out of his subspace with barely contained excitement while the others started to empty their own subspaces at a more appropriate speed. Fulcrum had to side-step to avoid getting his pede crushed by a decapitated _helm_ of all things. He looked around warily, trying to gauge the others reactions to find out if this was normal behaviour or not.

So far, it seemed like it was.

Fulcrum shifted his weight from pede to pede, avoiding eye contact. When Misfire finished emptying his subspace, there was a pile of various items that reached his shins. He either had a mod for extra space or was an excellent organizer.

Fulcrum blinked at it, surely all that trash wasn’t considered useful? He was about to say something about it, maybe ask about tips for scavenging, when he noticed the stillness around him.

He looked at the group, and felt his spark drop when he saw them all looking back at him. Everyone else had at least a few items to show for their trip, he just had the rifle. Misfire gave him an expectant look.

Reluctantly, he pulled the rifle out of his subspace. Immediately, there were reactions. Spinister’s rotors did a few spins (Fulcrum still didn’t know enough about rotary mechs to understand what that meant), Crankcase’s scowl flattened into an appreciative frown and Misfire threw his helm back slightly in shock.

“Hootie hoo!” Fulcrum ignored Misfire’s comment, instead nervously focusing on Krok. He raised the rifle slightly, barrel pointed down, and held it out.

“I guess this counts as pretty useful, sir.” He didn’t make optic-contact, he didn’t want Krok to think he was challenging his authority. He resolutely stared at the space next to his CO’s helm, trying to keep his face neutral despite the turmoil of emotions he felt.

“Keep it.” Krok nodded at the rifle and uncrossed his arms, resting his hands on his hip plating.

Fulcrum blinked rapidly at him, had he heard that right? His gaze darted to the rifle, then back to Krok. He didn’t know what to say, this wasn’t folding out like how he had imagined it.

“It _is_ useful, but we’re better off to keep it as is instead of using it for parts. It’s quite a find, since you found it you have the rights to it,” Said Krok. “I trust you know better than to aim it at a crew member.” He finished his sentence off with a stern and calculating look.

Fulcrum, smart enough to recognize an olive branch (he didn’t even know _what_ that was) when it was offered, and nodded. He held the rifle for a moment longer before stowing it back away in his subspace.

He rolled his shoulders, trying to dispel an ache that lingered between the plating. Once he was sure Spinister wasn’t likely to shoot him, he’d go to the surgeon to see if he could take a look at his back plating.

In the meanwhile, he’d take what he was given, and tuned into the conversation around him with not quite a smile, but something close to one.


	2. Chapter 2

Fulcrum ended up mounting the rifle on the wall near the head of his berth. 

It was a good location. It wasn’t on immediate display for whoever came into his hab, but it wasn’t tucked away to look like it was hidden. The barrel was pointed towards the entrance, and the stock was facing his berth-easily within grabbing reach if he needed to.

He doubted this would slip the notice of Krok, if he ever came into his hab for whatever reason. He wasn’t _paranoid_ (he was, just a little), but aside from himself, this was the only means of defence he had and his hand to hand was… better left unsaid. 

Rifle aside, he’d cleaned the rest of his hab to something more presentable. The dust had been wiped down, the scrap was organized and packaged and the boxes had been neatly stacked in one corner. There was a single desk and chair, which had been pushed across from his berth. 

The fluorescent light in the ceiling flickered periodically, and he made a mental note to take a look at it later. Knowing the WAP, it was most likely something like an alien parasitic growth leeching off of the heat from the bulbs. 

_Disgusting. Why would you think that?_ He made a face at the mental image and deliberately looked away from the lights. He was slowly getting accustomed to the specific brand of _weird_ the Scavengers seemed to attract, not to mention that they themselves were just plain weird. 

But… they were also sweet, in their own ways. 

Soon after packing up and taking off of the scavenged planet, Krok had approached him.

“Fulcrum, do you have time to talk?” Fulcrum had frozen at the question, trying to figure out what he had done wrong. Krok had walked them over to an alcove between two bulkheads and given him a curious gaze.

“You’re not in trouble. I just want to talk,” Krok probably noticed his flighty expression. “I don’t know who you were stationed under before you met us, but I run things differently around here.”

Fulcrum swallowed, worried at what that could mean. Did he have to prove himself? Kill an Autobot and you get accepted? Trying to blow up the DJD had to count for something.

Krok cut through his thoughts, “You don’t have to address me with rank. I like to command my mechs with respect, not fear and I don’t want you to worry about receiving a beating. I want to earn your respect, if you’ll let me.” 

Fulcrum felt light helmed. What? 

“I can’t force you to do anything, so the ball is in your court, as Misfire would say. Think about what I said,” And then Krok had walked away, breaking whatever bubble that surrounded the alcove. Their conversation, if you could even call it that, seemed to be over just as soon as it had started.

He was left standing there, wondering if he had somehow just had a visual and auditory hallucination. He’d… need to think about things. 

That wasn’t the end of it. 

They had an energon dispenser in the rec room and it was _ancient_. The thing was as basic as they came, tank to insert the energon and a nozzle to dispense it. Its crimes didn’t end there. Aside from being as ancient as dust, it was also broken. 

If he pushed too little on the faucet, nothing came out but if he pushed too _much_ the shutoff opened up all the way and caused the precious energon to spill. They had to ration it since it was so rare to come across, and that meant that Fulcrum only got his allotted amount…

...which usually ended up getting spilt. 

His solution to this problem had been to forgo his usual cup, and instead used a bowl to catch all the energon. He poked at the faucet every few moments, letting it open and dispense a _splash_ of the fuel, before letting it settle and then poking it again. 

It was embarrassing and annoying, even more so since he never saw the others struggle like he did. 

One cycle, he was back at the dispenser trying to minimize spillage when he heard the sound of someone entering the rec room. 

_Oh gosh. Oh Primus. Oh no._ He hiked up his shoulders, back kibble wobbling as it tried to do _something_. It was ok. Everything was ok, he wasn’t even that hungry, he’d just take what was in the bowl and no one would see-

“Why’re you using a bowl?” Crankcase asked from his position next to Fulcrum. 

“GAH!” His finger, which had been headed towards the faucet, jerked and smashed into the dispenser as he jumped. He hissed and held his hand close to his chest, trying to ignore the ache and instead looked at Crankcase, “I have no idea what you’re talking about. This is clearly a cup.”

Crankcase levelled him an unimpressed look, “I’m missing helm plating, not optics.” 

Fulcrum laughed nervously, a bad habit, and gestured to the dispenser with the hand he wasn’t cradling, “It- I can’t seem to get it to properly pour so I thought maybe if I used something bigger it’d spill less.” He smiled, trying to diffuse the awkwardness that seemed to cling to him like a bad smell. “Who’s even flying the ship…?” 

The grounder nudged past him to stand in front of the dispenser, “Krok’s keeping me company. He’ll comm if I’m needed.” Crankcase took a sip out of his mug, a ceramic thing painted orange with… _something_ blue on it. Looked like an organic, if he had to guess. 

Then Fulcrum realized, “Wait! How’d you…” He looked at the mug and then back to the dispenser where no energon had been spilt. Crankcase gave him what could’ve been a smile, if you were squinting, and standing fifteen feet away, and severely inebriated.

He watched as Crankcase grabbed the pipe above the faucet and twisted it to the left, then to the right, “You have to close up the shutoff a bit and then it doesn’t burst out when you press down all the way.” The pilot pressed on the faucet and energon poured out, a calm and steady stream into Fulcrum’s bowl. 

He blinked, and then smiled at Crankcase, a bit shy, “Thanks. I guess there’s a trick to it, huh.” He grabbed his bowl, feeling silly next to Crankcase’s mug. 

Crankcase took another sip, “Just remember to twist it back to how it was before so it doesn’t leak.” Then he walked off, back towards the cockpit. 

Fulcrum stood there for a moment to fiddle with the dispenser, before leaving it how he found it like Crankcase had said to. 

After that, it was quiet for a while. No stopping on planets to scavenge, no dogfights with other space vessels, just floating through the void towards their next destination. 

Fulcrum, somehow, found himself roped into what Misfire had dubbed “Game Night”. 

He’d gone to the rec room with his cup (his bowl was back in his hab, where it would hopefully stay) in one hand. After going over to the dispenser and _properly_ dispensing himself a cup, he headed over to the seating area where various chairs and a sofa sat. 

He went to sit down in an armchair that was easily made for a mech three times his size (it looked _so_ comfy) when Spinister had jumped up and bellowed, 

“DON’T SIT THERE!” 

Fulcrum had thrown himself away from the chair before Spinister had even spoken, and was half-hidden behind the couch when he looked at the group, optics wide like dinner plates.

Spinister, apparently satisfied that he had said his bit, sat back down and went back to watching the holo. Fulcrum looked from the rotary to the others, question clear on his face.

Misfire gave him an unusually solemn look, “That’s Flywheel’s spot.” 

_Flywheels? Flywheels… Oh!_ “I can’t sit here then?” He cautiously moved out of his spot behind the sofa, where Krok and Misfire sat. 

Crankcase snorted at something on the holo and then turned his attention to Fulcrum, “The only disrespecting of the dead we do is when we drain ‘em for fuel and use their frames as scrap. Sitting in dear Flywheels’ spot is where the line is drawn.”

Fulcrum blinked at him, not sure if he had heard that right.

“Primus rest his soul. Or Unicron. You never knew with that guy.” Misfire closed his eyes and put his hands together in what looked like a prayer? Fulcrum had no clue. 

He slowly inhaled, then let the air whoosh out through his vents before walking over to Misfire’s side of the couch, “Alright. Move over.”

The jet snapped out of whatever solemn mood he was taken with, and beamed at him and he obediently shuffled over to make room. His wings raised up high and angled forwards a bit. 

Fulcrum grinned at the jet’s display of joy and felt his mood lift, “C’mon, move! Your wings are taking up all the space.” 

That seemed to sober him up, as Misfire moved his wings back, nearly colliding with Krok’s helm in the process. Fulcrum sat down next to him after and took a sip of energon,

“What’re we watching?” 

Misfire groaned obnoxiously, “Some jokester called the Conmedian, can you believe? His riffs are lame but it’s Crankshaft’s turn to choose what we watch this week, so.” He blew a wet raspberry at the screen and crossed his arms to sulk. It was unfairly endearing. 

Fulcrum felt his interest pique, he liked a good chuckle. He looked at the screen with more interest than before.

Beside him, Misfire let out an ‘oof’ when Krok elbowed him in the gut, “Apologize.”

The jet let out another groan and threw his helm back, “I’m sorry Crankcase that your taste in holos is horrible and you like this clown who makes stupid jokes. That ok?” 

Fulcrum saw Crankcase send the jet a rude gesture out of the corner of his optic, and he smiled into his cup, feeling content. The way Misfire’s wing was angled towards him, almost enveloping Fulcrum into his side, had nothing to do with it. 

He was happy to stay here for a while. He might have been worried when Misfire had approached him with an invitation to Game Night, but he could see now that his doubt was unnecessary. This close to the jet, he could feel the heat from his frame mingle with his own. 

He was always cold these days. The reformat had taken away almost all of his original kibble and armour, even his secondary engine was ripped from him. Because of that, he was left with barely anything to trap the heat in. 

Acquiring a blanket (and as many pillows as possible) was high on his to-do list. He knew that they were stopping at a station soon, so he was hoping to get his purchases done. 

But until then, he was out of a blanket and there was a very warm jet right next to him. 

Subtlety was never his forte, there was a reason he was a technician and not a spy, but he still tried to act innocent when he shifted closer to Misfire. He leaned in just the slightest, close enough to steal some heat but not enough to actually touch. 

His optics creased at the corners as he took a breath to appreciate the moment, and he let out a content sigh through his vents. 

To his immediate horror, the air from his vents blows against Misfire, and gives away his new position.

Misfire looked startled, then confused and then finally pleased. His wings fluttered so minutely that they appeared to be trembling, and Fulcrum smiled at him with his optics. 

They didn’t say anything, but Misfire had grinned at him and seemingly subconsciously (because Fulcrum can’t imagine he’d be so sweet and open on purpose), let out a low warble in a language Fulcrum hasn’t heard in years. 

He didn't know if _Misfire_ knew what he just said, the jet seems to be content to go back to watching the holo, but the intent had been there. He quietly clears his vocals to get rid of any static build-up and goes to reciprocate the warble.

 _Joy. Contentment. Calm._ Is what he _means_ to convey, but moments after he opens his mouth his back kibble buckles, and then jerks back away from him so violently that it manages to pop itself out of alignment. 

A screech mixed with static whined out of his vocalizer, lost in the noise of his plating smacking into Misfire’s wing. 

The others stopped what they were doing to turn to look at him and Fulcrum feels the calm from earlier disappear in a zap. 

_Deflect. Apologize. Keep them happy. He isn’t important. Look away. Please._

He laughed, nervously, “Um. I hope I didn’t hurt you, Misfire. Cause… you’re wing is right there, you know? I'm sorry.” 

Misfire just blinked at him, optics wide. 

His back twinged, pain shooting up as his stupid stupid back plates tried to move against their own will again. 

Spinister, from his spot on the ground, back to the couch with Krok’s legs resting over his shoulders, piped up, “That’s not supposed to happen.” 

_Yeah. No slag._ Fulcrum wants to say, but doesn’t. Instead he just smiles (it’s more of a grimace), 

“Sorry. I don’t know why that happened. Um, recently my… my wings...” He trails off. The smile-grimace slowly melts off his face and leaves a hollow expression behind. 

And then all of a sudden, he can’t hear anything other than the ringing in his helm. Can’t feel anything other than the pain of his not-wings and the void inside him. It feels like the couch underneath him has disappeared. He’s barely registering anything, not the others who are still looking at him. He’s light-helmed, but feels packed with lead.

His- the kibble on his back tries to shift, because of _course_ it does, that’s what it’s been doing this whole time, and he almost cries from the sensation.

_His wings were gone._

_His wings were gone and the stupid kibble he’d been left with was trying to compensate for that loss._

_He would never fly again but his frame didn’t know that and kept trying to-_

_Kept trying to-_

Fulcrum jerks up and runs away.


	3. Chapter 3

They didn’t say anything for a few moments after Fulcrum ran off. None of them really knew _what_ to say. 

Crankcase turned down the holo and turned in his seat to better face the rest of them- specifically Misfire, “What was that?” His tone suggested that it wasn’t a question so much as it was a demand.

Misfire, who hadn’t moved from his shocked position on the couch, blinked at him, “You’re asking _me?_ ” 

Crankcase waved an annoyed hand at him, face set in a deep scowl, “You’re the one who was flirting with him!”

“Flirting!” Misfire repeated, starting to feel annoyed himself. “What, just because he’s cute and I _happen_ to be talking to him means that all of a sudden I’m flirting? I can talk to my crew-mates you know!”

“You admit he’s cute!” Crankcase pointed at him accusingly.

“Yeah, and? Doesn’t mean I’m trying to do the no-panels dance with him!” Misfire snarked, wings hiking up.

Spinister, from his spot on the floor, twisted to face him, “You gotta admit Misfire, cute people don’t talk to you.” 

“Yeah, it’s ‘cause _your_ fat-aft blocks everything in sight!” He tucked his legs under him and sneered at Spinister. 

He watched Spinister’s optics narrow the way they usually did before a brawl broke out and he flared his wings out, sending the surgeon a nasty look.

Before things could escalate further, Krok (with an ease that suggested he’d done this many times before) grabbed at Misfire’s wing where it was particularly sensitive and pinched him. Hard. 

While Misfire was trying to twist his wing out of the iron grip, Krok grabbed Spinister’s helm. He hooked fingers under the frontal helm fringe and twisted until the rotary mech was looking away. 

Misfire got a small but firm yank on his wing before it was released, and he immediately shuffled to the other side of the couch. He shot Krok a scowl and tucked his limbs in as tightly as he could. 

Letting go of Spinister, Krok rolled his optics and gave Misfire an unimpressed look, “What happened?”

Misfire sputtered for a moment before sighing and looking away, “We were just talking when his back kibble busted itself out of alignment. I dunno what else to say.” 

His CO didn’t say anything to that, and instead squinted his optics slightly and tapped a finger idly against his mouth plate, thinking.

Misfire twiddled his fingers and made faces, feeling like somehow this was his fault. He hadn’t meant to let out a warble of _affectioncarehappiness_ (something he hadn’t done since his academy days), but he was confident Fulcrum hadn't picked up on it. 

Spinister understood seeker-speak, but that was it. Misfire missed being around large numbers of seekers where he could trill and warble and screech to his spark’s content and receive in turn. Spinister helped fill that hole in his life, yet something inside him still cried for more. 

“What do you think, Spinister?” Krok asked. 

Misfire rested his cheek in his fist and gazed at the rest of them, knot in his chassis.

“K-Class reformats are slag. They obviously didn’t care about rewiring processor stems or re-configing any neural pathways for motor function.” Spinister scratched the side of his helm as he spoke. He wasn’t a mech of many (coherent) words unless it came to medical matters. 

“Layman’s terms, Spin.” Crankcase piped up. Misfire wondered what a ‘layman’ was.

“ _Basically_ , the reformats were rushed patch-jobs that tore off a mech’s kibble and plating to make room for the outer casing of the bomb, with no care to how the change in kibble would affect the mech’s processor.” He paused and gestured at Misfire’s wings, 

“I swapped out those wings for tank treads. Your processor wouldn’t know how to handle the change because it’s so used to having your original kibble. It’d either overcompensate with your new frame or shut down entirely.” He ended by tilting his helm side to side a few times, a tick that was unique to him. 

“So what you’re saying is that the reformat is hurting him because the surgeons didn’t care about doing a good job.” Krok didn’t sound pleased.

“Why bother? Everyone knows the life expectancy of a K-Classer.” Spinister said, grimly.

Krok cursed and rubbed his faceplate, “Can we reverse it in any way? Or make it less harmful?” 

Spinister shook his helm, optics focused on something else.

Misfire felt guilty. He hadn’t even considered the fact that Fulcrum wasn’t originally a bomb. He had taken what he’d been shown without pausing to think past appearances. 

He wondered about Fulcrum’s original alt-mode. Maybe he had a data-storing alt? Or he could’ve been a grounder. A bike?

Thinking about it made him feel worse, like he was only interested in who Fulcrum had been, and not who he was. He didn’t care about Fulcrum’s original alt, really, it didn’t matter to him but he was _curious_. 

He didn’t want Fulcrum to think that he was only interested in him because of who he once was. 

“I’m gonna go talk to him.” Misfire stood up, brushing imaginary dust off his thighs. 

He felt optics on him as he got up and walked around the couch. Krok was looking at him, red optics intense. 

He felt his plating bristle, agitated. Krok and his judgmental looks could go kiss his aft. He wasn’t sure what warranted the patented Krok Stare, but he wanted nothing to do with it. He was just going to talk to Fulcrum, that was it. 

The WAP was average sized, a bit smaller than most, but it offered a good amount of living space for everyone. That said, it was meant for a crew larger than the five of them. Rooms always seemed to be bigger than they actually were, hallways too long. Because of the lack of a proper crew, the ship was usually quiet. 

That meant that the sound of sorrowful glyphs in seeker-speak were easily heard throughout the hollow hallways. 

Misfire stopped, blinking his optics as he half turned back where he knew Spinister was, wondering why… 

But no, the noises weren’t coming from there. Curiously, he turned back the way he was headed. 

His audials weren’t the sharpest (high velocity impacts would do that to a mech), but he was able to pick up the general location of the glyphs. It was coming from the direction of the crew quarters.

Had Crankcase left his holo on again? Everyone was aware of his secret holonovela guilty pleasure, but pretended like they didn’t for his sake. 

He went in the direction of the noise, trying not to get distracted. He would go turn off the holo, and then go find Fulcrum. He knew if he didn’t at least go looking for the source of the glyphs he wouldn’t be able to focus.

Down the hallway he went, straining to hear the glyphs as they petered off. 

There were a few moments of silence, then they started back up again, subdued, and Misfire took off on a small jog to find them. 

Eventually, he ended up in front of a closed hab door. He was pretty sure this wasn’t Crankcase’s hab, but he’d been wrong about these things before. Since Crankcase was back in the rec room, there was no point in knocking.

The first thing he noticed when walking into the hab was the upset K-Classer sitting on the edge of the berth. 

Distantly, he took in the rest of the hab and it’s startling lack of a personal touch but his attention was all on Fulcrum, whose optics had widened in surprise at the sudden intrusion.

Misfire blinked at him, wings fanned out in surprise and filling up the doorway with their span, “Oh. It’s just you.”

He made a face at the way his voice came out. He was trying for a calm tone so that Fulcrum didn’t think he was here to yell at him. Instead it came out flat. Disinterested.

He only had a brief moment of nothing before Fulcrum’s optics started to leak and a harsh sob punched it’s way out of his chassis. He wiped a palm across his face and gave Misfire a glare.

“What do you want, Misfire?” His voice was quiet, a contrast to his sobbing.

Misfire fumbled, “I- um, I wanted to come see you. ‘Cause I thought we were having a good time and- and then your kibble went POW!” He gestured with his hands for emphasis. “-and hit my wing but like it didn’t hurt in case you were wondering, see? There’s not even a dent-” He brought his wing forwards to show Fulcrum, but it clattered against the doorframe _hard_ and he tripped over his own pedes.

He glimpsed alarm on Fulcrum’s face before he fell forwards. His arm swung out to grab at something to stop him from falling. His hand connected with the corner of Fulcrum’s desk but his momentum caused him to swing forwards and smash face first into his crew-mate, who had gotten up.

“Umf!” The two of them toppled backwards and hit the berth. Fulcrum fell back on it, and Misfire landed on top of him, though he got up after and stood a step back. 

Fulcrum hadn’t moved, and was staring at Misfire with wide optics, frame rattling. 

Misfire tried to salvage the situation, “Guess I’m lucky your armour was so soft or I’d have dented my finials.” He grinned, hoping Fulcrum would copy him. He fanned out his wings, trying to project calmrelaxcalmfriendhappy. 

It had the opposite of the intended effect, and Fulcrum only drew in on himself more, Go away.” His voice wobbled. 

Misfire took a step forward, if Fulcrum could just see that he didn’t need to be so upset then things would be fine! There was nothing to be bothered about, he just had to realize this!

“Naw, c’mon! I wasn’t like, calling you fat if that’s what you thought! Let’s just go back and hang out with the others!” 

Fulcrum’s arm kibble shifted around, pushing itself away from his frame, “Go away, Misfire!” 

“Why? What’s so interesting about this room that you want to be all alone in here instead of with us?” He didn’t notice himself taking another step forward. “We were all having fun and who cares if your frame is being stupid and doing stuff it shouldn’t, why can’t we all just have fun?”

He waved his hands around, “Like, I don’t even care that you’re K-Class! It’s not a big deal so why are you being so- so moody! It’s- HRK!” What he was about to say was cut off when a pede planted itself in his abdominal plating. 

He staggered back (when had he gotten so close to the berth?) and dazedly held up his arms to fend off the pillow that Fulcrum flung at him.

“Get out!” Fulcrum shrieked. 

Misfire stumbled away as Fulcrum rose from the berth and quickly closed the space between them to shove the jet. 

“Wait! Wait! Stop! What did I say? Why are you pushing me?” His words came out in a rush as he dug his thrusters into the ground to try and stay in one spot. 

“Leave me alone!” Fulcrum wouldn’t look him in the optic, face raw with grief as he shoved against Misfire.

“Woah woah woah! I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” Misfire wriggled around and faced Fulcrum who was shaking.

Careful not to grip too hard, Misfire grabbed Fulcrum’s wrists when he tried to shove and gently held them. He brought them up in between their frames and placed one of Fulcrum’s hands on his chest, over where his spark casing was. 

“See, I’m calm. We’re calm. Everything is ok.” He was trying to reassure himself just as much as he was Fulcrum because he was still reeling from the past few series of events. 

Fulcrum’s frame was still rattling and shaking, and he wouldn’t look Misfire in the optic, “Go away.” Misfire had never heard him sound so beaten down. 

He pressed Fulcrum’s hand against his plating with a bit more pressure, hoping he could feel the way his spark spun and thrummed without turmoil. 

Fulcrum closed his optics and held them that way for a moment before he shuddered and let out a glyph of painsorrowshameregretshameshameshame. 

Misfire lowered the both of them to the ground, only then letting go of Fulcrum’s wrists, “I kind of don’t want you to be alone right now.” 

“I just want to be alone.” The K-Classer was hunched over, knees knocking against Misfire’s.

“Well sometimes I want to tether myself to the outside of the ship and let it tug me around when I’m bored, but Krok says that’s a bad idea so he doesn’t let me do it. I’m Krok right now, telling you that what you want to do isn’t gonna help.”

Fulcrum wiped at his face, and sniffed, “I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, I know.”

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading! 
> 
> check out my tumblr where I post my art of tfs (but mostly the scavs)! 
> 
> @alpacalamamama


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